


An Analysis of Sherlock Holmes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which certain aspects of Sherlock Holmes are written about in detail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Analysis of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jess Bobby](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jess+Bobby), [That one John cosplay blog that I love](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=That+one+John+cosplay+blog+that+I+love).



**Notes**  
This little thingy is dedicated to Jess, for the near-ridiculous amounts of information she gave me on everything violin. Many thanks to you!

***

**French**

Sherlock’s French, John has discovered, is incredibly distracting.

It wasn’t noticable at first, not amongst the quite muttering that would often fill the small flat in the middle of the case. The odd word here and there, quiet enough that they, like everything else that Sherlock murmured under his breath, were indistinguishable. Another sound to fill the silence. Nothing more.

Over time, John became more aware of what Sherlock was saying, became more accustomed to the mumbling and starting to pick up on it. Normally it was … simple, by Sherlock’s standards - short sentences and words and the odd long, rolling phrase as he worked his way through everything that he had seen and deduced. And then, sometimes, there would be the French. The language of love, John remembered, before smiling slightly and turning back to the paper. Sherlock would probably disagree on that.  
One day, John noticed that Sherlock was speaking almost entirely in French as he worked his way around a particularly difficult problem.

It was mesmerising.

And then… then there was that one day, when the two had spoken together and things had been revealed and shared and understood, there was that one day when Sherlock flopped down on the sofa next to John as he watched telly and started whispering in his ear. John found it incredibly distracting, the way that the soft words and flowing letters drifted over his tongue, curling through the air and into his ear as sweet whispers, highlighted and accented by the brush of his breath against John’s cheek. He shivered slightly, not from the cold, and Sherlock, being Sherlock, noticed. He didn’t stop murmuring.

It was odd, John thought later, when the two had finally moved - it was a language he didn’t know but one that Sherlock made him understand, all meaning bared and clear in how he spoke and murmured by his ear. Soft sighs and quite breaths punctuated the landscape of rolling, foreign syllables and words.

John loves the sound of Sherlock’s French.

***

**Hands**  
Much like fingerprints, hands are all unique, running from the carpals to the metacarpals, proximal phalanges, middle phalanges, distal phalanges, knuckles mounding and curving under skin like softened mountain ranges, the valleys between them shifting with each gesture. With Sherlock, the phalanges are long and slender, hidden beneath smooth, pale skin, but the shapes of the bones can be seen with each movement and action.

When he thinks, he likes to place his fingertips together, hands slightly bent at the joint between the metacarpals and the proximal phalanges. The knuckles can be seen then. They look almost like vertebrae.

(It is possible to imagine Sherlock murmuring the names of the bones under his breath as he thinks, a soothing mantra.)

The tendons are thrown into definition as he rubs rosin into the hair of his violin bow, moving like thrumming harpstrings under his skin. They vibrate and flutter with each move, each steady sliding of his hand along the length of the bow. He likes to hear the violin sing.

(Proximal, middle, distal. Repeat).

When he slows after chasing a suspect he often half-curls his hands at his side, each bone in a different position. Long, graceful, the hands of a pianist one might think. But these hands can kill, oh so easily, and these hands can make a carved and shaped piece of wood and catgut sigh and hum and sing soft lullabies and whirling dances. These hands are well cared for, washed meticulously after each experiment, soap and water running over the ranges of the knuckles and joins, between the dips around the still-shifting tendons, forming brief waterfalls of liquid light in the harsh fluorescent glow.

Sherlock can name every bone in the hand.

He knows he can.

***

**Lips** Sherlock’s lips are…malleable. Yes, that would be a good way to describe them. They, like the rest of his body, his face, can change in the blink of an eye, swapping from soft and quiet compassion to harsh, cold anger and questioning. He needs to be able to do this. It’s his job. (When he’s worried his lips part slightly, revealing his white teeth and sometimes the tip of his tongue. The corners fall slightly, the muscles slackened by shock and anxiety. He is not often worried. He is only worried for John, it seems.)

His upper lip is thin, thinner than the lower one, the skin of his mouth slightly darker than the skin elsewhere on his body. It isn’t as pale, and this, somehow, makes it look more alive. In the right lighting his lips particularly stand out, when harsh whiteness illuminates his face (an ethereal glow) and turns his lips a soft pink. They almost draw the eye, then.

Sometimes his top lip can look like spreading wings (of an angel, John thinks), slightly bowed and following the straight line that his mouth assumes when he has no reason to show expression. It is possible for the eye to follow the curve of his mouth, the angel wings. Sherlock would probably call them gull wings, if anything. It is likely that he would not romanticise a facial feature.

(John smiles when he thinks this, and thinks then of the same smile crossing Sherlock’s face. The wings would be in flight then.)

Sherlock’s mouth normally drops open somewhat when he realises something, or opens in a soft gasp, a soft stirring of breath, when something in his brain clicks and suddenly everything is solved. His lips (soft and pale and gentle when he wants them to be) bend and curve and bow to the shape of his quiet exclamation, closing again into a soft smile a moment later. His smiles are nice - they make his whole face seem softer, calmer. Sherlock doesn’t smile often. John treasures it when he does.

Whenever Sherlock smiles, speaks, gasps, murmurs, breathes, does anything with his mouth and oddly gentle lips, the angel wings move.

Sherlock’s lips, which can map the minds of others and spin soliloquies on homicides, are malleable.

And look so very, very soft.

***

**Eyes**

They have no set colour, the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, not really. If anything they have too many colours, a rainbow or refracted prisms worth of shades that whirl, kaleidoscope-like, catching and holding the gaze of any who see them. They appear almost crystalline in a certain light, broken and fractured into perfectly coloured segments and stars by the unforgiving glare of overhead lights. But even then, they are gorgeous (undoubtedly so).

At home, at Baker Street, the softer, warmer lights bring out the greys and browns that reside beneath the more vibrant colours, making his eyes seem softer almost, more gentle. More than that, they make Sherlock himself seem less frantic, as if his mental state could be viewed through his eyes.

(“The window to the soul.” Sherlock would scoff.)

But away from the close comfort of the little flat his eyes regain their full spectrum, consisting primarily of a multitude of greens and blues, teal and turquoise and spring-leaves and every shade that the sea and oceans can throw to the surface, each dazzling in its own way. Sometimes the colours seem to be different for each eyes - it has often seemed to Jon that Sherlock’s left eye can appear almost cat-like, filled with hazel and green and soft golds, the darker rim around the outside serving to hold the colours close and safe (protected and withheld). At night, when the two slow to catch their breath in the depth London’s alleys and backstreets, the dim light pulls open his pupils, shrinking the iris and enlarging the jet-black void that rest at the centre of his nebula-like eyes (a black hole, maybe, between the world and his mind, sucking in every last scrap of information). His eyes appear even more feline then, dark and almost hungry.

(John mentioned this to Sherlock once, after they had both had a few glasses of wine. Sherlock has chuckled, amused, before starting on a rambling lecture on the differences between feline and human eyes. John didn’t mind. He just watched his eyes as the rolling, half-murmured words flowed over him.)

By comparison, Sherlock’s right eye holds much more blue and azure, with splashes and bright, sparkling points, of emerald green and violent cobalt, a near-endless sea of perfect shades. You could get lost in that sea, quite easily (John has). When he smiles, his eyes pull up at the corners and catch the light, creating shards of white across his iris. When he looks up, and epiphany bursting through his mind and his mouth dropping open somewhat in silent delight, the light appears to be caught, not reflected.

Often, it feels as if the raw intelligence and genius of Sherlock’s mind could be seen in his gaze, his eyes practically radiating knowledge and wisdom, staring through everything that you pretend to be and pinning the soul beneath. Of course, Sherlock would claim that such a concept is ridiculous, though so many would disagree. They read you, that’s what those perfect orbs do, and John has felt Sherlock’s eyes settle on him many a time, often after he has said something that the genius, the poor genius who can see everything but miss the obvious, has not understood.

If one was to paint with the colours of Sherlock’s eyes, they would need to no other palette.

***

**Neck**

Sherlock’s neck is almost unfairly attractive, John thinks sometimes - soft, pale skin pulled taunt over humming tendons that shift and turn with each motion of his head, his adams apple bobbing up and down as he swallows a gulp of tea or bites back an angry retort.

When Sherlock steps outside, on his way to a crime scene or on his way to dinner (with John) or on his way to some other errand, the slender grace of his neck is often hidden, tucked away behind an upturned collar and a soft scarf, masked from view. The smooth expanse of muscle, planed and perfectly flat in places yet curving and rolling in others, cannot be seen, not until he whips off his scarf, shaking his head slightly as he tugs away the length of fabric to reveal a contoured expanse of soft, white skin.

(When he speaks his adams apple sometimes bobs up and down. It’s mesmerising.)

The shirts Sherlock wears (the top button undone) are often darkly coloured, which only serves to enhance the shape of his neck. Sometimes, when he’s at the lab or working under the glare of the kitchen lights, his skin seems to pick up an almost ghostly glow, the dips and curves and rolls of the tendons and muscles in his neck thrown into sharp relief and accented by deep, dark shadows, an ever-shifting landscape of black shade and white skin. It looks cold, in this light.  
John knows that it isn’t.

There was one time, he recalls, when they were chasing yet another suspect (in the day, for once), and he tried to shoot Sherlock, the sound of the gun echoing down the street and drilling straight into Johns mind. They caught him (they always did), and the moment the suspect was down, out of the equation, John pulled Sherlock aside, his hands fluttering nervously over his neck and shoulders, fingertips tracing and following the curve of his collarbone, the dip that was formed between it. His skin was warm, John had noticed, pulse beating smoothly, swiftly, under his fingers as he rested his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, thumbs resting on the pulse point. Sherlock was tense, still flushed from the chase, and his neck and tendons felt rigid under Johns palms.

When Sherlock is calm though, relaxed or deep in thought, his mind flying and darting through (between) everything he had seen, his neck, his whole posture relaxes. At Baker Street, the warmer lighting makes the shadows less cold, softening the edges and transforming his neck from a marble sculpture into living, breathing, flesh, dipping and falling at the back to reach his shoulders, the soft curve and rise of his vertebrae half-hidden under dark curls.

Yes. Sherlock’s neck is most certainly unfairly attractive.

***

**Voice**

The voice of Sherlock Holmes seems to have a near magical ability, being able to sink directly into the brain, into the mind and under the skin without ever going through the ears, a layer of roughened velvet draped over the conscience, enveloping and warm. It fills the mind when he speaks, diving into every crevice and holding the attention more perfectly than anything else, the pitch and tempo rising and falling as the mad, wonderful genius strides and spins his way through a revelation.

When Sherlock is in thought, working his way through a case as he rests his chin on his steeped fingers, his voice is a soft murmur, warm and all-encompassing, a panther trapped in a cello (deep, resonant, rough). John likes the sound of Sherlock’s murmur-voice, the way it fills his head, comforting without being distracting. He rarely hears it outside Baker Street - to him it has almost become the background noise of the flat in the evenings. The room would seem empty, almost cold, without it (without Sherlock). The sounds of Sherlock’s vocalised thoughts and deductions has become the sound of home, comforting in the way that few sounds are, a mental blanket.

(Sometimes Sherlock sits next to John when he’s watching telly or reading the paper and starts whispering, a tumbling stream of vowels and consonants flowing from his lips and tongue. John misses a lot of what Sherlock says, but he understands it anyway.)

Sherlock’s voice changes drastically in anger though, all softness dropped, warmth abandoned. It is less like velvet now, more like a honed blade wrapped in silk and satin, unspeakably beautiful but masking cold, roiling fury. Words aren’t spoken when Sherlock is like this - they are spat, as if the force of his emotions alone is enough to turn letters into verbal weapons (John pities those on the receiving end, but only sometimes). At other times, when the frustration has become too much or when Sherlock is in the depth of a black mood, words are actually shouted, as rough as ever, but now the panther in the cello has claws and sharp, tearing fangs.

And then there are the times when Sherlock has no words, when he has no way of conveying his elation as something in his brain sparks and suddenly everything he had seen, heard, smelt, deduced, comes together, a silent epiphany. All he gives then is a soft, breathless gasp, a small intake of breath as his eyes widen and his mouth drops open, quiet joy dancing along his features.

(John treasures these moments, these small pinpoints in time when Sherlock is able to take delight from something and is temporarily lost for words.)

Very, very occasionally though, John catches Sherlock at moments of near-childish joy, when they’ve been invited to a triple homicide or some other truly bizarre crime scene, a flash of ecstatic delight darting across his face before being swept up into the confines of his mind (palace).

Sometimes, the panther in the cello is a kitten.

***

**Hair**

Sherlock’s hair isn’t as dark as many would believe, oddly enough. Away from crime scenes, away from the amber glow of the street lamps (tainting, colour-draining), in the soft white light of cloud-muted days, his hair is less dark, auburn and bronze and chestnut leaking through, swirling through his gently bouncing curls, a tide of flowing colour. The sun catches it sometimes, wiping away shadowed roots and drawing out rich tones, highlighting waywards strands, thrown free by his rummaging fingertips or a curious wind (personification of the weather. Sherlock would find it ridiculous).

His hair is unruly, most of the time - Sherlock was never one to care for it, opting instead to run his fingers through it, dragging them back and forth in jerking, errant gestures as he hunches forwards, bathrobe hanging lose around his scrawny frame, frustration at the dullness of ordinary life bubbling through. There isn’t much John can do when this happens, just sit and watch Sherlock’s long hands mussing his hair, tangling and untangling in swift motions, spellbinding.

(Sometimes John wonders what Sherlock’s hair feels like, how it would feel to run his own hands through it, cradling his skull and brilliant, star-spun mind.)

The curliness of his hair changes frequently, almost daily, John has come to realise. There are some days, often those spent in the comfort of the flat with rain hammering on the windows (too damp for crime, even killers like to stay dry), with no cases and no corpses or experiments, and Sherlock’s hair forms itself into small loops and curls, bouncing and swaying softly as the madman himself paces back and forth across the floor, across the tables (Sherlock never cared for furniture). It’s almost hypnotic, the motion of his curls (his whole body), clustered tight to his head and moving as he does. Even after a shower the curls remain, dampened and glistening with water and slightly deflated, plastered closer to Sherlock’s skull, half-frozen waves of brown and black (melded, still apart), darkened by water and tinted by lamp-light.

Other times, outside, the wind and breeze likes to play with Sherlock’s hair (personification again), picking up the curls in soft fingers of gusting air, spinning and twirling until boredom returns and the wind drops, hair fluffed and moved. John has to stifle chuckles sometimes. Sherlock doesn’t always realise how the wind has acted. Sometimes the wind is stronger, pillow-like zephyrs gone, replaced with blades of furious air that cut and sting the face, grabbing Sherlock’s hair and throwing it awry, uncaring.

(When this happens John wants to reach over, up, and let his fingers touch Sherlock’s scalp, hair, return it to it’s own chaotic order.)

At crime scenes, in shadowed alleys and unnatural lights, the colour seems drained from his hair, coppery tones sucked out and replaced with a palette of dark, obscuring grey (monochrome). There are no hues here - the curls, too, seem to move less, life gone from the wind-wild waves and spins, tamed by darkness.

Shadows make John miss the light, and the hues of Sherlock’s hair that it reveals.

***

**Music**

Sherlock is calmer, so much calmer, around his violin (treasured), his whole body almost melting into it as he stands and plays, silhouetted against the window of Baker Street, drawing and teasing soft notes and gentle songs from the instrument (as elegant as he is when he plays). Often, his brilliantly coloured eyes slide shut, music filling his head, waves and ribbons and twisted-glass spires as the strings vibrate under his fingertips, motions light and gentle (soothing).

Sherlock treats his violin with a softness, a tenderness, that he displays to few others, if any (John).

The music he pulls from the heart of the violin is endlessly calming, softening thoughts and carefully pulling away the darkness that crawls like living, writhing shadows in the depths of the mind (Sherlock’s mind), all light touches and loving caresses. This music is one of the few things that Sherlock will put feeling into, loving it almost as much as he does his work (his friend), caring for it and dwelling on it. He composes, sometimes, turning all corners (the brain is rounded, it has no corners) of his mind to the task, hand flickering as he scribbles down the notes that flit and flicker through his head, bird-like.

Sherlock’s chosen music range is vast, varied, a library of pieces from all periods and places stored in his mind (Sherlock needs no physical manifestation of the music he hears). For thinking, following the path of a crime and pulling together all his observations, he seems favour more French pieces, moving the bow closer to the bridge (a floaty, near-mystical sound), Saint-Saens and Poulenc drifting across the room. Sherlock also seems to possess a fondness for Bach (sonatas and partitas), his eyes shutting as he stands by the window, effortless playing producing astounding music. John is loath to disturb Sherlock when he plays Bach, kicking his shoes off to move on socked feet around the flat (he will not disturb this star-woven music).

(When John is annoyed or tired or wound up Sherlock will stand and play for him, saying nothing, letting the notes do the speaking instead. What he cannot say with words he says with music.)

Sometimes, when he cannot be bothered to stand and search for the bow, Sherlock will pluck gently at the strings, tunes no longer sung but no less musical in their wonderful perfection (Sherlock plays brilliantly), or rub rosin into the horsehair of the bow in careful, precise motions. John has noticed that he does this a lot when he needs to think, to distract himself, keeping his hands occupied as he chases a problem, eyes staring ahead unseeingly, shirt and jacket miraculously unrumpled. Every now and then he will stop, one hand relaxing against the fingerboard as the other lifts to rest over the curved weight of the scroll, fingers trailing and tracing over the swirls and whorls and intricacies of the carved wood, slipping down to cautiously adjust the pegs (the sound), ensuring perfection before he returns to his thoughts and quiet, simple music (undisturbed). However, when John speaks his head raises, turns, fingers slowing as he adjusts the focus of his thoughts.

(In Sherlock’s eyes, John is as important as work and music.)

After playing Sherlock rises (if he was sitting), eyes darting over the room to search for a duster, a discarded shirt (silk, often), some soft fabric to rub around the bridge and under the strings and across the fingerboard, wiping away what rosin residue there may be (meticulous, practised actions). 

Cleaning the violin seems to soothe Sherlock.

But when Sherlock is annoyed, a frown creasing his forehead or displeasure turning his mouth, he will play again, short bursts of cacophonous noise created when he yanks the bow across the strings, actions swift as he turns his head and lowers the violin from his shoulder, fingers drumming a random pattern on the silk-smooth wood (the violin reveals what Sherlock will not say).

There was one time, once, when John came home to find Sherlock striding impatiently across the floor, violin in one hand, bow resting over one shoulder, pausing at various points to move the violin to his shoulder and play angrily before returning to his angry march. It was clear to John (John, who knew Sherlock better than anyone else, who knew each of his moods) that Sherlock was on the edge of a black mood, his mind failing him, crawling where it should have been sprinting, deductions trickling, no more a swift-flowing stream. John had shrugged off his coat and walked over to the other man, gently resting a hand on his shoulder, feeling Sherlock relax and soften and calm under his palm.

When Sherlock played again, the notes sang.


End file.
